


Not the best of mornings

by Onomatopoetikon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), References to Depression, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25567240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onomatopoetikon/pseuds/Onomatopoetikon
Summary: In a quaint little cottage in the South Downs, a demon is not having the best of mornings. Luckily, they have an angel.This is a short fic inspired by Whiteleyfoster on instagram and their wonderful artwork. Rated T for very mild coarse language and reference to the mental and emotional weight of immortality.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	Not the best of mornings

It was the most amazingly beautiful morning, Aziraphale thought as he opened up the little kitchen window to let in the morning breeze and the sounds and scents that would, from now on, always be the Downs to him. The air always smelled green here, the grass of the rolling hills now in summer interspersed with the lovely perfume of roses and peonies and clematis, and a whiff of salt from the sea. Outside the kitchen there were insects buzzing about in the honeyed sunlight, birds chirping in the bushes, and from the field just a stone's throw away, sheep bleating.

Aziraphale drew a long, deep breath and took it all in. This glorious little place, a true wonder of creation!

To be sure, the closest sushi bar was a sad thing to behold and there were no musical theatres to speak of, but that did not matter. London was only a mere couple of hours away by train (a travelling experience Aziraphale quite enjoyed, especially with a packed lunch) or a forty-five-minute drive in Crowley's car (an experience Aziraphale enjoyed quite a bit less). The bookshop was still there, as were the theatres and the music halls and all the wondrous little restaurants and cafés, and Aziraphale could pop over there whenever he wanted. But a lot of the time, he found himself more than content right here.

It was a quaint little cottage, this. It was old, according to human standards, built somewhere in the early 1700s, with a disproportionately large combined kitchen and living area, a single, cramped downstairs bedroom and a bathroom that must once have served as a closet, containing an impossibly huge bathtub with clawed feet that could not be removed with less than the demolition of the entire cottage. Aziraphale loved it, and he was sure Crowley did as well.

Because that was the best part. Sharing this quaint little cottage, in this lovely place, with Crowley.

They still both had their London apartments, as well as various other dwellings across the planet, and Aziraphale still had his bookshop and Crowley their beloved Bentley. But they also had this, together. And it was such a beautiful, beautiful morning.

With the windows opened, Aziraphale tottered about the kitchen, making tea and plans for the day. If the weather stayed this lovely, they could go for a walk. There was a cliffside promenade which Crowley particularly liked (mostly, Aziraphale thought, because of the sheer drop into the ocean only a few feet from the pathway) and a forested path which Aziraphale preferred. Or, they could walk down to the village, perhaps take a turn about the little square. Have fresh, hot scones with butter so rich it ran golden down your fingers with each bite. His spirits, already high, lifted even higher at the delectable thought.

If only Crowley would wake up.

It was actually, now that Aziraphale came to think about it, not that early a morning. And yesternight had not been a particularly late one. Certainly, he allowed, there was no rush. Crowley could sleep in as late as they liked, and Aziraphale could take a walk on his own. Only, it was much _nicer_ to have company. Crowley's company.

And there were sounds coming from the bedroom now, he could hear the small groans and grumps that were the audible displeasure of a certain demon coming out of sleep. Only, they stopped.

Curious.

Aziraphale knew Crowley's routines rather intimately by now. Knew the sounds they made and how they went about things like pouring coffee or sitting down on the little green bench in the garden to throw crumbs ( _not_ pebbles or gum, Aziraphale made sure to check) to the little birds. He knew that they would sigh and groan and curse a little under their breath, but that it was mostly for show, and they would get up and shuck on their clothes and come slithering into the kitchen with their surprisingly tender smile. Only now, the sounds had… stopped. Which was decidedly not like Crowley at all.

Despite the rather deafening choir of nature just outside the window, Aziraphale found himself listening intently at an equally silent cottage.

The metal spring mattress squeaked gently as the demon shifted their weight on it. Then, more silence.

Minutes of silence.

Aziraphale did not move a muscle. He had quite forgotten about the teapot at this point, what with all his attention focused on the bedroom door left ajar and the demon who was clearly not coming out through it.

"Crowley?" he ventured. "Are you quite alright in there, my dear?"

"I, uh, yeah…" came Crowley's familiar voice, uncharacteristically low and meandering. "I just-"

But there were no more words, only a sound which at first Aziraphale could not place. Almost inaudible (unless you were an angel with a great desire to hear even the smallest of sounds right this moment), but a heavy sort of sound, a gush of wind almost, but trembling and peculiar. Then again, laboured.

Breaths? _Sighs_.

It was no more than two shakes of a lamb's tail before Aziraphale was at the door, knocking gently.

"I'll be coming in."

The door opened quietly, revealing a rather dishevelled-looking bedroom. Its most prominent feature was the voluptuous double bed, usually neatly made, but at the moment with pillows and sheets strewn higgledy-piggledy like a ship wreckage at sea. It was not the state of the bed clothes that caught Aziraphale's attention, however.

Crowley was sitting on the far edge of the bed, facing away from the door. A partition of their hair had been pulled into a haphazard bun at the back of their head, pulling some of the hair away from their face but leaving long, red locks to spill freely down their shoulders. They were buttoning a garment Aziraphale did not know the name of; like a sleek, long-sleeved dress up top, but with shorts instead of a skirt. He knew Crowley loved it, tight and black and slinky and impractical as it was, but Aziraphale could see their shoulders trembling and that their gaze was downcast.

"Crowley?"

Another tremor, a shakily whispered "fuck". They must have lost their grip on a button.

"What's the matter, dear?" Aziraphale asked as he stepped into the bedroom and walked around the bed. "You're shaking."

"Nah, angel, it's nothing" they said, "I'll be right out."

But their voice sounded raw and… put on. Like an ill-fitting masque. And Crowley turned away from him, denying Aziraphale to see their face.

"It's clearly not nothing" Aziraphale said softly, stopping a pace away. "Is it something I did?"

"No!" Crowley cried in protest, their gaze snapping back and up to meet Aziraphale's eyes instantly. "No, angel, it's not you-"

Their face looked naked, just then. Stripped of everything, and yet, their beautiful eyes were brimming with emotion that would have, Aziraphale was sure, in any other pair of eyes, been tears.

"I just can't" Crowley croaked. Their gaze fell, and they slumped. "I don't, argh, today, it's like- I can't."

Their shoulders were trembling again, despite them holding on to the edge of the bed, and Aziraphale did not have to ask what Crowley couldn't.

"Can I give you a hug, dearest?" he asked.

Crowley sniffed, then raised their chin and nodded. Many, many small nods, as if not stopping was the only way not to lose themselves completely.

"Uh, yeah, yeah I suppose that would, um, would be okay. Yeah."

"Let me closer." He touched Crowley's knee and they spread them wide, allowing Aziraphale to take a step in and put his arms around them. Crowley did not return the embrace at first, but after a moment grasped Aziraphale's shirt with their hands and burrowed their face into Aziraphale's shoulder, right above his heart. And their shoulders shook.

There are sensations that cannot be put into words.

Beholding the beauty of a newly born star. Enjoying a bath in a hot spring after four months in armour in the dampest, (probably not literally) God-forsaken part of England. The taste of freshly caught oysters, sprinkled with the lemons from the tree you are currently sitting underneath, watching a small bay full of boats and people. Sharing a glass of tinkling champagne after successfully avoiding the end of the world.

But there are also decades and centuries of loneliness, and silence, and hopelessness and despair. Seeming aeons of time without ever seeing a familiar face, because war or pestilence or starvation or a prick in a thumb that turned into bloody sepsis overnight, took every last human away from you, and the only other immortal being was on another continent entirely, and you had to pretend to be happy about them being out of your way when all you truly wanted was to watch the stars and get sloshed together. And even though they were here now, together, with no Armageddon looming in the near future…

Six thousand years is a long time, even for ethereal, and infernal, beings. And sometimes you just can't.

"You don't have to do anything, dear" Aziraphale soothed as he hugged Crowley tightly. "We can just be."

Crowley sniffed, and sank a little deeper into Aziraphale's embrace. And maybe there were no tears, but whatever burdens they carried seeped out anyway, like the tide going out. Aziraphale tried to leave enough room for them to do so, while still hugging Crowley closely, letting them know he would not let go.

"'m sorry, angel" Crowley murmured some uncounted time later, face still hidden against Aziraphale's shirt pocket. "'bout this."

"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about" Aziraphale said. "Nothing at all, my dear."

"But" came Crowley's troubled voice, "I mean, hngh, don't you want to… go out?"

"No, I do not." Aziraphale shook his head decidedly, which of course Crowley could not see, but they made a half-suppressed choking sound anyway.

"You want to go out every day!" Crowley protested, in a tone that made the words sound an awful lot like _liar_. Which Aziraphale, quite frankly, could not stand.

"Well, I do want to go out. _With you_ " Aziraphale clarified. "It's still a very novel experience, not to have to hide, and I do rather enjoy it. But I won't drag you out on town if you're not up to it."

He squeezed Crowley's shoulders tighter.

"You have catered to me and all my whims for centuries, my dear" he said softly. "You can take the day off."

Crowley made another half-choked sound, and it tugged at Aziraphale's heart that he could not interpret it.

"Please?" he urged. "Will you, for me?"

"If I say yes now" Crowley said, sounding a bit more like themself, "doesn't that still count as me catering to your wishes?"

Aziraphale let out a breath, and chuckled.

"Yes, I suppose it does."

"Right." Crowley seemed to take a deep breath, but once they let it out, they burrowed closer still and put their arms around Aziraphale. "Thank you."

"My dear Crowley, you are always, _always_ welcome" Aziraphale smiled into their hair. "Would you like to go back to bed?"

Crowley nodded, and they disentangled from each other slowly. Aziraphale let Crowley's hair out for them, and helped them slither out of their half put-on clothes, and kissed their forehead once they were tucked in again.

"I love you, Crowley" he whispered.

"Ngk" said Crowley, and disappeared under the blanket.

It was still an amazingly beautiful morning in the Downs, with birdsong and the perfume of roses and the distant crashing of waves against white cliffs. In the kitchen of the quaint little cottage, Aziraphale discarded the pot of cold tea, and made two mugs of hot cocoa instead – one with extra cream, a generous dash of cardamom and as many miniature marshmallows as would fit – which he brought into the bedroom along with a selection of books. Soon he had settled upon the bed, his back against a mound of pillows piled against the headboard, and with Crowley snuggled close at his side, sipping cocoa and listening with their eyes closed as Aziraphale read aloud from _The Secret Garden_.

It may not have been the best of mornings, but it was amazingly beautiful all the same, and Aziraphale could not have wished for better.

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this story was inspired entirely by Whiteleyfoster over on Instagram and their lovely artwork. If you are interested in seeing this particular piece of art, please visit https://www.instagram.com/p/CCbmvbul9vO/?igshid=1mf4exfj7eqho and leave them some love!


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